then Saturday he told me some story about his lawyer detaining
him--never once did he name Gilson to me. It looks like---- _Oh, wee!
oh, wee!_ my heart will break with the shame of it! Every one will pity
me. Even if some make excuses for Leonard, I shall know it is only pity
for me--only pity! I cannot bear it! I cannot think of it! Father and
mother must take me away--no, no, I must face the shame, smile at it,
what they call ‘live it down.’ Oh, what shall I say? What shall I do?
And mother is too ill to trouble. And to father I cannot complain of
Leonard. Oh, Leonard! Leonard! Leonard!”
And it was while tossed from wave to wave on this flood tide of anger
and sorrow that she was told Leonard was waiting to see her. She rose up
hastily. Had she taken a few moments to calm herself everything might
have been different. But even her opening of the doors between herself
and her lover betrayed the whirl and tumult of the feelings that
distracted her. Nor was this mental storm soothed by Leonard’s presence.
He came eagerly forward to meet her; a pleasant smile on his face and a
white rose in his hand. She took the flower from him, and threw it down
upon the table; and he regarded her with amazement. Her face, her
attitude, the passion of her movements, arrested the words he was eager
to utter; and in that fateful pause Sappha’s unguarded, unconsidered
accusations fell like the voice of doom upon his senses.
“You are a byword among men! No nice girl will be seen with you! You
will never again be asked to any respectable house! Annette says so! She
will be even compelled to shut her door against you!”
“Sappha, Sappha! Do you know what you are saying?”
“Only too well I know it. Annette has just been here. She has told me
all. You left her to tell me. Why did you not come yourself? Sunday,
Monday, Tuesday, all these days I have been in suspense and misery.”
“Listen to me, Sappha, I----”
“It is too late now. Annette has told me. I have heard it all--my heart
is broken--I shall die of shame. Every one will pity me. I cannot, I
cannot bear it----”
“Stop one moment, Sappha. Do you believe Annette? Do you think she will
be forced to shut her door against me?”
“She says so.”
“Then Judge Bloommaert may have the same obligation--and you also. If
you can believe this, you can believe anything that is said against me,
your promised husband. It is I who am heartbroken. It is I who must feel
shame. It is I who must go all my life in the fiery shadow of wrong and
injustice. Sappha, you have known me as no other person has known
me,--in my inmost soul,--and yet you can believe I deserve such
treatment?”
“How can I tell? If you had done anything to right yourself----”
“Oh, that is not the question. You should have trusted me through
everything, and in spite of every one. You have failed me just when I
needed most your love and confidence. If Annette tells you I ought to be
shut out of your heart and house, you will believe her! What is your
love worth? It is only a summer day’s idyll. The first chill wind of
disapproval kills it. I will go before I am shut out. In future days it
may be easier for you to remember that I closed the door on my own
happiness. Oh, Sappha, Sappha! lighter than vapour is your love--and I
had built my life upon it!”
His face expressed more indignation than distress. He lifted the rose
she had flung down and looked at it with a moment’s pity; then he pushed
it toward her.
“It is my last offering,” he said. “Take it. And as it fades, forget me.
I shall never give you shame or trouble again.”
Then anger took entire possession of Sappha; and anger does everything
wrong. She lifted the rose and cried out amid her passionate weeping:
“I will not wait for it to fade. No, I will forget you _now! now! now!_”
and as she uttered the words she ruthlessly tore off the white petals,
scattered them on the floor at his feet--and was gone.
Her tears, her shivering words, the utter passion of misery and
tenderness that made the action almost like the slaying of a living
creature, so stupefied and fascinated Leonard that for a moment he could
neither move nor speak. When he recovered himself he ran to the foot of
the stairs and called her. “Sappha! Sappha!” he cried. “Sappha, come
back to me, I have something to tell you.” But she was gone. A slight
flutter of her white gown as she turned the last angle was all he saw;
and if she heard his appeal she did not answer it.
For a few minutes he waited, but the laughter of the negroes in the
kitchen, coming faintly through the baize-lined doors, was the only
sound he heard. Then he returned to the parlour and carefully gathered,
one by one, the torn leaves. The last note Sappha had sent him was in
his pocket book. He placed them between the sheets and, shutting them in
the book, put it in his breast.
What was he so still for? What had he done? What had come to him? Blast,
or blight, or fire, or fever? He picked up the torn rose leaves as if
they were bits of his heart, and the door clashed behind him and seemed
to shake the very foundations of his life. He knew that he was walking,
but his heart hung heavy at his feet. All he loved was behind him--he
was drifting, drifting into a darkness where love and joy would never
again find him. Oh, it is only
“---- the Lord above,
He only knows the strength of Love;
He only knows, and He only can,
The root of Love that is in a man.”
CHAPTER NINE
_The Reproof of the Sword_
Leonard’s suffering was very great, but Sappha’s was still greater.
Wounded love, injustice, and disappointment can inflict mental distress
that has no parallel in physical pain, but with Sappha’s misery was
mingled the intolerable drop of remorse for her hasty passion. Now that
all was over, now that Leonard had gone away forever, there came to her
the clearest conviction that she had done him a great wrong. She
remembered that she had not even given him an opportunity to explain
circumstances--she had met him with passionate reproaches and flung his
love gift, torn and mutilated, at his feet. After that shameful, piteous
rejection what could Leonard do but go away? It was an act for which
there could be no apology and no forgiveness. She cried out with the
anguish this cruel, hopeless reflection caused her; and had Leonard been
really present she would have fallen at his feet in an agony of love and
repentance.
Prone upon her bed she lay, torturing herself by a thousand
self-reproaches, and by a perpetual memory of that last look of pained
amazement with which her lover had regarded her. She could not put it
from her, it seemed to have exorcised every other memory of his face.
With heartbroken sobs she sent after him one cry, “Forgive me! Oh,
Leonard, forgive me!” But the void between them swallowed it up in
silence. There was nothing to be done. The long, long days and years
before her held only frustrate longings and despair. This reflection
came to her as a finality, and she ceased weeping and protesting and lay
dumb and passive like a child smitten by a power it can neither appease
nor comprehend.
Her mother found her in this mood, and when Sappha said, “I cannot come
to dinner to-day, I am in trouble. Annette told me things about Leonard,
and I have sent him away forever!” the mother understood and was full of
pity.
“Do not try to come down, dear,” she answered. “As soon as your father
goes out, I will return to you.”
“Are you better, mother? Are you able to attend to father?”
“Yes, yes, I am well again. Ah, me, there is always sorrow at somebody’s
heart!”
“It is my own fault, mother. Leonard is not to blame. I will tell
you--after a little while.”
Then Mrs. Bloommaert went with a heavy heart to serve the dinner; for
whether heads are aching or hearts breaking dinner is a fact that cannot
be excused. She was full of anxious thought as she went about the
table, placing sauces, condiments, and wines, and arranging the small
details which always pleased her husband. He had been depressed and
angry concerning Leonard Murray’s conduct for some days, and she
wondered how the news of Sappha’s dismissal of the young man would
affect him.
Contrary to all expectation he entered the house in high spirits. He was
delighted to find his wife better, and able to give him her company and
sympathy; and as soon as they were alone he began to talk to her about
Leonard in a manner full of pride and satisfaction. Nor was he much
dashed by the information that there had been a quarrel between the
lovers, and a final separation.
“Final separation!” he repeated, with an incredulous laugh. “Nonsense.
That is a regular climax to a love fever. They will be more devoted than
ever in a week’s time. Tell her what I have just told you, and they will
be friends in half an hour.”
“I fear not. Leonard has shown wonderful patience so far, but my father
used to say ‘beware the anger of a patient man’; for when once his
patience has given way, his anger is not to be pacified.”
“All foolishness, Carlita. Go and tell Sappha everything. I promised to
meet St. Ange about three o’clock; you see I have not any time to spare
now.”
“I do not know what Annette said to Sappha--something ill-natured, no
doubt; but I wonder St. Ange did not give her strict orders to keep her
tongue quiet about this business.”
“You wonder St. Ange did not give Annette ‘strict orders.’ Well,
Carlita, I wonder at your simplicity. Who can order a bad-tempered
woman’s tongue? Tell Sappha I have gone with St. Ange to see Leonard.
Doubtless I shall bring him home with me.”
He went out with this pleasant anticipation, and Mrs. Bloommaert
arranged a little dinner for her daughter, and sent it upstairs to her.
“You must eat, Sappha,” she said, “you can’t live on your tears. And I
have good news for you--very good news. See now, how nice this roast
chicken looks, and the beans, and the strawberry tart; and I made the
tea myself; yes, dear, you must have a cup of tea, and you must first
tell me all that Annette, the cruel ill-natured woman, said to you.”
This confidence helped Sappha wonderfully. She could rightly enough
blame Annette, and there was relief in shifting so much of the reproach
from herself. And Mrs. Bloommaert felt no scruple in throwing the whole
weight of the unfortunate affair on Annette. “It would never have
happened, never!” she said, “if Annette had been minding her house and
her baby instead of following Achille round; and then because she could
not find him she must come and vent her home-made wretchedness on you. I
wish I had heard her! She called Leonard a coward, did she?”
“She said every respectable person thought him one, and she repeated
many things about him getting enormous interest from the city--oh,
mother, I cannot go over it again.”
“There is no need to do so. Leonard Murray has turned all such ideas
topsy-turvy. Now I am going to tell you all about it, and you will see
how well he has managed this miserable business. On Sunday he went to
see Achille, and Achille told him he could forbear no longer, and though
Leonard thought it was a kind of cowardice to fight a man so inferior in
skill both with sword and pistol to himself, Achille convinced him there
was no other way to prevent Gilson lying. So early on Monday morning
Achille called upon Gilson. He first presented to him a paper
acknowledging all his accusations against Leonard to be false and
malicious, requiring him to sign it. But Gilson fell into a great
passion, and said he would fight St. Ange for daring to offer him such
an insult; and Achille answered, ‘it would give him a supreme pleasure
to allow him an opportunity as soon as his friend, Mr. Murray, had
received satisfaction.’ Then he gave him Leonard’s challenge. The fellow
threw it carelessly down on the table, and said ‘he was going to Boston
on important affairs, but when he returned he would make immediate
arrangements to meet Mr. Murray and teach him to mind his own business.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Achille, ‘you will meet Mr. Murray before you go
to Boston. You will meet him to-morrow morning at half-past seven
o’clock in Hahn’s wood, Hoboken. You know the place. Or if there is any
other place you prefer, I am here to make arrangements.’ Gilson said,
‘one place was as good as another.’ Then they agreed that the weapons
should be rapiers, and Gilson laughed scornfully, and ‘hoped the
clearing at Hahn’s wood was not too large, for he intended close
quarters. Murray,’ he said, ‘could not have half an acre to skip about
in.’ To which fresh insult Achille answered that if Mr. Gilson wished
close quarters he felt sure Mr. Murray would be delighted to fight on a
billiard table.”
“I like Achille, mother, yes I do!”
“Achille is a good friend in need. He made all other arrangements for
the duel, and Gilson promised that he and his friend Myron Hays would be
on the ground at half-past seven the following morning. He used a deal
of very bad language in making these arrangements. Your father said we
could imagine it as bad as we chose, and that then it would come far
short of the reality.”
“So there was a duel this morning! Oh, mother, if I had only known!”
“Do not hurry me, Sappha. I want to tell you all just as it happened.
Leonard did not trust Gilson’s promise, nor did Achille. They determined
to watch him; and they found out two things: first, that he intended
leaving New York for Boston soon after seven; second, that he had
ordered breakfast for himself and Myron Hays fifteen minutes before
seven at the City Hotel.”
“But, mother, Gilson must have known that Leonard stayed at the City
Hotel?”
“Of course he knew; but he felt sure Leonard would be crossing the river
at that time. Then he would have taken his breakfast, sending the while
repeated inquiries as to whether any one had seen Leonard or St. Ange,
and affecting great indignation at their non-appearance. Finally some
insolent message of future defiance and punishment would have been left
with the proprietor for Leonard. Oh, can you not see through the
foolish, cowardly plan?”
“It was a contemptible scheme, and full of weak points, mother,”
answered Sappha.
“It would have answered well enough; it would, at least, have thrown
doubt and contempt on both men. Fortunately Leonard and St. Ange
followed Gilson so closely that they were at his side ere he had
finished giving the order for serving his coffee. ‘At present,’ said St.
Ange very politely, ‘there is not time for coffee. We will cross the
river at once, sir,’ and Gilson answered, ‘I am going to Boston on most
important business. Mr. Murray must have got my letter explaining.’ Then
Leonard said, ‘You never wrote me any letter, sir. And you are not going
to Boston, you are going to Hoboken, and that at once.’ Gilson still
insisted that he would fight Leonard when he came back from Boston, and
St. Ange told him he could have that satisfaction if he wished it; but
first of all, he must fulfil his present engagement. ‘All is ready for
it, he continued; ‘a boat waits for you and Mr. Hays at the foot of the
garden, and another boat for Mr. Murray and myself will keep yours in
sight.’ Then the man looked at his second, and Mr. Hays said it was
proper to go at once, and he was thus morally, or unmorally, forced into
compliance. At the last moment Gilson ‘supposed arms and a doctor had
been remembered,’ and St. Ange told him those duties had been delegated
to him and properly attended to. ‘The doctor,’ he said, ‘was in their
boat, and the swords also,’ the latter having been approved by Mr. Hays
on the previous day, at which time it was also agreed that Gilson should
have his choice of the two weapons. St. Ange told your father there had
been several irregularities, but that all had been arranged with perfect
fairness by himself and Mr. Hays.”
At this juncture Sappha lost all control of her emotions and began to
weep and lament; and her mother rather sharply continued: “Tears are not
needed at all, Sappha. Leonard was perfectly calm. Of his own safety he
had not a fear. He and St. Ange kept Gilson’s boat in sight until they
landed; then the ground was marked off, and the men threw away their
coats and vests and received their swords from the seconds. I cannot
tell you just what happened, but your father could make it plain enough
I dare say. To me it was only thrust and parry, touch and go, for a few
minutes, then Leonard made a feint at Gilson’s breast, but by a movement
instantaneous as a thought nailed his right foot to the ground with his
rapier. The man shrieked, and would have seized Leonard’s sword, but
that action was instantly prevented by the seconds. The affair was over.
Gilson was at Leonard’s mercy, and when he withdrew his sword St. Ange
said, ‘Doctor, the case is now yours. And then turning to Gilson he
continued, ‘Mr. Gilson, if you cannot control your tongue in the future,
we will do this as often as you like.’”
“I hope the man will not die, mother!”
“Oh, no! Leonard intended only to punish him. He will have a few weeks’
severe pain, and may have to use a crutch for a longer time--perhaps he
may not dance any more; but he only received what he richly deserved.”
“But I do not see, mother, how this duel will put Leonard right in
people’s estimation.”
“Oh, my dear, St. Ange took good care to secure witnesses to Gilson’s
cowardly attempt to get away; and the men who rowed the two boats were
there, to report for the newspapers. They heard much conversation I have
not repeated. Your father also thinks Myron Hays, though he would not
say much, was deceived and very indignant. You may be sure that St. Ange
and Leonard arranged for a full vindication. Now, Sappha, wash your face
and dress yourself prettily. Father said he would bring Leonard back to
tea with him.”
“Leonard will not come with father. He will never come again, I know! I
know!”
[Illustration: “HE AND ST. ANGE KEPT GILSON’S BOAT IN SIGHT UNTIL THEY
LANDED.”]
“If he does not, his behaviour will be cruel and dishonourable. Why did
he not tell you about the duel!”
“He could not--I did not give him a moment’s opportunity. It was my
fault--all my fault. I was so angry at what Annette told me that I met
him in a passion, and before he had time to tell me why he had stayed
away and what had occurred I shocked him with Annette’s false charges,
one upon the other, without any pause, until I told him that Annette was
going to shut her door against him. Then he asked me if we also intended
to shut our door against him, and mother, I have no excuse--there is no
excuse for me, none! I ought to suffer. Oh, how miserable I am! And,
mother, mother, I have made my own misery.”
“You go too far, Sappha. You make too much of a few words. All lovers
have quarrels, and in my opinion Leonard cannot come back too soon.”
“He will not come. He was too quiet. He said too little. He will never
come back. Always, we have slighted him a little.”
“He has been very well received--do not make excuses for him on that
ground. I wish Annette would keep her tongue out of our affairs. She is
nothing but a mischief maker.”
“I know, but Annette could not have harmed me if I had been true to
Leonard. To be ready to doubt him, only on Annette’s word, was a
shameful wrong, and I deserve to be forsaken and forgotten.”
“It is Leonard’s fault more than yours. He ought to have stopped that
man’s tongue at once. Any woman would have become suspicious and
irritable. It was a shame for Leonard to put your love for him to such a
trial. He will see that as soon as he gets over the little slight. Now
dress yourself, dear, and come downstairs. What is the use of nursing
sorrow in a darkened room? Sunshine makes grief more bearable. I do
believe that Leonard will return with your father.”
“I will come down--but Leonard will not return with father.”
“You are very provoking, Sapphira. And I can tell you one thing, they
that are determined to be miserable will always find the wherewithal for
misery. Try and hope for the best,” and she kissed her and added, “Put
on a fresh white frock, you look best in white.”
So Sappha did as she was counselled, but her bravery did not help her to
bear her sorrow--a sorrow made worse by its uncertainty in all respects.
If Leonard had only granted her a little time, if he had been patient
enough to tell her of the morning’s events, if he had not given that
rose of renunciation! Yes, that act of his was the real provocative of
her desertion. He had told her to forget him. What could he expect but a
prompt acceptance of his request? It would have been impossible at that
stage to have hesitated. He had broken their betrothal, not her; how
then could she hope he would make any effort to renew it?
She did not hope for it, though she obeyed her mother’s desire, and with
an aching heart dressed herself in white and went downstairs. About five
o’clock she heard her father’s steps, and he was not alone. But the
double footsteps did not give her a moment’s hope. She knew they were
not Leonard’s, and in a few moments she saw that St. Ange was her
father’s companion. They were talking in tones of earnest gratification,
and as soon as the ordinary greetings were over resumed their
conversation.
The subject was, of course, the duel and the sympathetic response it had
evoked in Leonard’s favour. Gilson’s effort to escape to Boston, his
bullying language when detected, the decided white feather he had shown
on the field, his cowardice under pain since he had received his
punishment, were now the topics of public conversation; and the men who
had been foremost in doubting Leonard Murray were now the warmest in his
praise. All these things St. Ange described in his usual sparkling
detail, and the judge, Mrs. Bloommaert, and Sappha listened to him with
the keenest interest.
Suddenly Judge Bloommaert said: “I never heard before of a man disabling
his antagonist just in that way. I wonder how Leonard learned the
stroke.”
“One of Robespierre’s emigrants taught it to Leonard. He was a noble of
the highest lineage, but when driven to America he embraced the simple
life of the wilderness with inconceivable ardour. Leonard met him in the
exploring party which he accompanied to the Mississippi, and together
they went down the river to New Orleans. Their tedious voyage was
relieved with sword play, and under this French noble’s tuition Leonard
became an incomparable fencer. With this same stroke he disarmed Señor
Zavala in New Orleans.”
“Ah! Then Murray has fought before?”
“Yes. The duel between Señor Zavala and Mr. Murray is well remembered in
New Orleans.”
“Suppose, then, you tell us about it,” said Mrs. Bloommaert.
“I was not acquainted with Leonard at the time, but Mr. Livingston told
me of the circumstance. The Americans in New Orleans are proud of it.”
“Why have you never named it before, then?” asked the judge.
“Leonard desired me not to speak of it because he said there was a
feeling against the duel in New York, and that you, judge, whose good
opinion he specially desired, were opposed to the custom. I think,
indeed, that Leonard’s reluctance to notice Gilson’s slanders arose from
a fear of offending you.”
“Well, St. Ange, as a general thing I do not approve of the duel; but
there are exceptions to every rule, and the exceptions must be condoned.
They need not, however, be repeated.”
“We are more anxious to hear about Leonard’s New Orleans affair than to
discuss the right or wrong of duelling,” said Mrs. Bloommaert. And St.
Ange smilingly continued:
“The occasion for it lay backward some years, even to that twentieth of
December, A. D., 1801, when the tri-coloured flag of the French republic
was displayed at sunrise in New Orleans for the last time. For at noon
that day Governor Claiborne and General Wilkinson, at the head of the
American forces, entered New Orleans, and the French Commissioner
Laussant gave up the keys of the City Hall to them. Amid tears and
profound silence the French flag was hauled down, and the Stars and
Stripes took its place.